


Freeze!

by TW Lewis (gardendoor)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-12
Updated: 2008-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-29 09:35:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardendoor/pseuds/TW%20Lewis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Police work is taking more of a toll on Blair than anyone realizes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Freeze!

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimers: They’re not mine. Originally intended it to be slash, but this story had other plans. Sorry, guys! ShayAlyce asked for Jim/Blair and the prompt Freeze! The songs "Standing Still" by Olga Kozak and "Terrarium" by Dar Williams got me through the tough parts.

Under most circumstances, Blair Sandburg considered himself to be an honorable man. The sort of man who would never think of filching break room snacks. But these were Rhonda's world-famous, triple chocolate, ooey-gooey cupcakes with cream cheese icing, and the holiday party was set to begin an hour before Blair finished proctoring his exam that afternoon. There was no way in hell even one of those decadent cupcakes was going to survive an hour in a room full of hungry cops. He could have _one_ , couldn't he?

"FREEZE!" Someone bellowed behind him.

Blair screamed and reacted on pure instinct. Even as he pivoted to face his attacker, he snatched a can of soda from the table, whirled, and pitched it--

\--Straight into Henri Brown's nose.

***

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I can't believe I did that!"

Jim nudged his partner's shoulder. "It was an accident. H understands that." He cocked his head and dialed up, filtering hearing and focusing on the exam room where they'd taken Brown. "The doctor's saying it's not a bad break; they're just going to ice and tape it, and it should be fine. He's had worse sparring at the gym."

"I can't believe I did that," Blair repeated, seeming not to hear him.

Simon walked over to them and quietly said, "Jim, can I talk to you for a minute?"

Jim patted Blair on the back, a gesture his partner didn't even register, and followed Simon down the hall.

"He seems pretty shaken up," said Simon.

"He feels terrible," Jim agreed. "He says he just reacted."

"Kid's wound too tight," said Simon. "He's survived being shot at--"

"--Held at gunpoint, saw his mom held at gunpoint--"

"--Stuffed in the trunk of a car--"

"--Trapped in a falling elevator--"

"--and that's just this past year! It's no wonder his nerves are shot."

Simon and Jim both winced at that. Blair had a classic case of post-combat jitters, and Jim blamed himself entirely. Blair was an academic; if it wasn't for his work with Jim, he'd never be anywhere near bullets or explosives.

"If he were a cop, I'd put him on leave, make him see the department shrink. But the kid would run rings around any shrink we sent him to." Simon sighed and looked Jim in the eye. "Take him home. Do whatever you need to to get him past this; I'll give you all the time you need."

***

When they left the hospital, Jim didn't take the highway home. He took the back roads, listening to the hush of wheels on asphalt. Blair was uncharacteristically silent, as distant as though the other side of the truck were continents away. It gave Jim time alone with his thoughts, time he didn't want.

Until he'd met Blair, Jim had never had a true partner, someone who was always ready to back him up, whatever he needed. Someone who put up with his crap but gave him a good smack upside the head when he needed one. Someone who made him a better person than he was on his own, both on the job and in his life outside the job.

But he'd taken it for granted that Blair would be game for whatever Jim wanted to do. What if Blair had hit his limit? Could Jim give up that partnership if Blair needed to stop? What if it meant giving up his job altogether? Could he do that?

They passed through the residential neighborhood and into the center of town, and Jim focused his attention on the other cars. Blair still hadn't moved, hadn't said a word. Jim would have given anything to know what Blair was thinking.

What if Blair needed to stop? Could Jim continue to serve as a detective, or would he have to leave the Force, take a desk job somewhere, like his dad? Could he do that without going nuts? He knew what the answer was supposed to be, that in an equal partnership, he should be prepared to make sacrifices for Blair, just as Blair had done for him for two years. But Blair was still teaching and studying. He hadn't had to give up the world he loved, just add to it.

Law enforcement wasn't just a job to Jim. Since he was a kid, the one thing he'd known for certain was that he never wanted to be a businessman like his dad, chasing money and status and ignoring the things that really mattered. And in the Army, Jim had often been forced to follow orders that turned his stomach, orders that had nothing to do with serving his country's people but everything to do with serving his country's agenda. In Major Crime, on the other hand, Jim spent every day catching murderers and gun runners, serial killers and crime lords. He got to use his strength and his mind and yes, even the damned senses, doing something useful, something important, saving people's lives or, when it was too late for that, bringing their killers to justice. Could he give that up for Blair? Would he be the same person if he did?

852 Prospect. Jim pulled into a parking spot and killed the engine, but made no move to get out of the truck. Blair was still lost in thought. Jim watched him for five minutes, ten, fifteen, until Blair finally shook himself out of his stupor. "Jim?"

"We're here," Jim said unnecessarily. As he rode up in the elevator, he thought to himself, _I'll do it. I'll take a desk job, I'll retire, whatever it takes._

But a little voice at the back of his head whispered, _And how long before you start resenting him for it? How long before you stop feeling like you'd die for him and just feel like you want to wring his neck?_

 _It doesn't matter,_ he told himself. _If I don't let him go, I'm going to lose Blair anyway, to shell shock, or worse. I can handle a job I don't like; I've done it before. I can't handle what this is doing to Blair, knowing it's all my fault._

Blair unlocked the door to the loft and walked into the living room, staring out at his reflection in the balcony windows. "I really screwed up today," he said softly.

"No," Jim began automatically, but cut off what he was going to say when Blair turned and looked at him pointedly.

"I screwed up. And I started thinking, you guys keep telling me I'm not a cop. I thought it didn't matter, I thought it was just a question of procedure, the stuff you always remind me about, like calling for backup or making sure to wear gloves and booties before walking into a crime scene. But it's more than that. You do things -- and I mean you plural, you and Joel and H and Rafe and Megan -- you know what to do and you keep your cool, no matter what the situation is. And that's when I realized that you need a cop backing you up, someone who isn't going to screw up or freak out on you. I'm thinking..." he swallowed. "I'm thinking we need to bring Megan or Joel in on this whole Sentinel thing, teach them how to guide you. You need a partner who's not going to get you killed."

"And you thought _Megan_ would fit the bill?" Jim exploded, staring at his partner like he'd grown a second head. God, how could Blair blame himself for this?

Blair shrugged. "Joel, then. He's solid, perceptive, a good cop. He'd make a good Guide."

"I have a good Guide," said Jim. "Chief, do you even hear the words coming out of your mouth? If you don't think we cops screw up or lose our cool under pressure, you haven't been paying attention these last two years." He foundered then; Blair was the one with the genius for getting people to open up. Jim had to fumble in the dark and hope for the best. "Tell me the truth, Chief, what do you want?" He saw Blair's eyes slide away as he began to speak, and cut his words off. "Forget what you think I need, okay? We're not dealing with me right now." He waited, fighting to keep his voice calm, his expression unruffled. The last thing he wanted was to guilt-trip Blair into doing what he wanted.

"I... What do you want me to say?" Blair looked pleadingly at him.

"It's an open mike, Chief," Jim gently forced the question back on Blair.

Blair looked at the floor, swallowed audibly. "I... I waited my whole life to find a Sentinel." He paused, but when it became clear Jim wasn't going to take that deflection as an answer, he licked his lips, cleared his throat, and started over. "In class, we debate nuances, points of view on history, culture, current events, like we're better than the people who made those mistakes because we can pick them apart, even if we never have to face those kinds of decisions ourselves. And on weekends we go to protests, just like our parents did, and if we make page twelve of the newspaper or get a ten-second spot on the local news, we feel like we've raised awareness, created the possibility of change. I can't count how many protests I've gone to in my life, or how many classes I've taken. But I can remember the names and faces of every person we've saved, people like Ms. Lacroix, or Angie Ferris. And it's not just them -- how many people are there out there who we'll never meet, whose lives _didn't_ change because we stopped the gang war or the stalker before that violence ever touched them?" Blair forged ahead, his face animated, hands gesturing for emphasis like his voice alone couldn't contain his passion. Like himself again. "Sometimes I'm TAing, or I'm writing an exam, and the only thing that keeps me from saying it's pointless and walking out is the thought that these kids are going to be out in the real world soon enough, and maybe if I push them to think outside their theses and their grand cosmologies, I can give them the tools to make good calls when they're in the thick of it."

He stopped, deflating again. It hurt to watch. "But it doesn't matter whether I love the roller coaster. If someone got hurt, if you were killed out there because you needed trained backup instead of a groupie, I'd never forgive myself."

Jim gripped Blair's shoulders, flooded with emotion. "I have trained backup: you. You're the best partner I ever had, Chief, and if I gave you room to doubt that, I'm sorry." He saw a hopeful spark in Blair's eyes, and before doubt could overtake it again, he said, "What happened today was that you got wound too tight, trying to know when you need combat reflexes and when you can stand down." He winced, thinking of times the loft had been broken into, the station overrun, the truck hijacked. "The way our luck runs, it's not like you can turn those reflexes on when I'm officially on duty and relax when I'm off." That earned him a snort. "But, Chief, every cop in the precinct -- every cop on the Force! -- has had to train themselves out of a twitchy trigger finger. This isn't some character flaw of yours. If you really want to do this, there are courses you can take at the academy; I'll get Simon to write you a dispensation to take one." He smiled, teasing. "If you think you can stomach another course..."

Blair smiled back. "For this one, I'll make an exception."

Jim hugged him tight, relieved. "You really want to keep doing this? Being my partner?"

"More than anything," said Blair.

"You're crazy," said Jim. "But you're my kind of crazy."

End.


End file.
